"Any idea why the Tiffany isn't here?" Paul asked. The bartender scanned the harbor and swore under his breath.
"Damned idiot, he was in no shape to run a boat."
"Would any of the other people who were in the bar know where he is ?"
"Naw, they were even drunker than he was. Only one not drink- ing was Fred Grogan, and he left before Mike."
Trout's analytical ear was listening for inconsistencies. "Who is Grogan?" Paul asked.
"Nobody you'd want to know," the bartender said with contempt. "Lives in the woods near the old plant. He's the only local guy the new owners kept on when they bought in. Pretty surprising, because Fred is such a shady character. He pretty much keeps to himself. Sometimes he sneaks into town, driving one of the big black SUVs you see around the plant."
The bartender paused and looked across the water, shading his eyes. A small boat had entered the harbor and was moving toward the pier at great speed. "That's Fitzy coming in. He's the lighthouse keeper. Looks like he's in a big hurry."
The outboard-powered skiff skidded up to the dock, and the white-bearded man in the boat tossed a line ashore. He was clearly excited and didn't even wait to climb out of the boat before he started to babble almost incoherently.
"Calm down, Fitzy," the bartender said. "Can't understand a word." The bearded man caught his breath and said, "I heard a big boom late last night. Rattled my windows. Figured it might be a jet flying real low. Went out this morning to take a look. Pieces of wood all over the place. Look at this." He whipped back a tarpaulin, pulled out a jagged plank and held it over his head. The painted letters Tif were clearly visible.
The bartender's lips tightened. He went into his bar and called the police. While he waited for the law to arrive, he made several more phone calls. Pickup trucks began to arrive, and a motley fleet of search boats was organized. With Fitzy in the lead, the flotilla had already set out when the police chief arrived. The chief talked to the bartender and got his story. By then, some of the boats were return- ing. They had more scraps of wood that identified the boat, but no sign ofNeal.
The sheriff put in a call to the coast guard, which said it would send in a helicopter, but the consensus seemed to be that Neal had gotten drunk, decided to go for a joyride and probably hit a rock near the point and sank. The Trouts did not comment on the explanation, but as they drove back to the rooming house, their conversation dwelt on more sinister possibilities.
Gamay put it bluntly. "I think Mike was murdered." "Guess I wasn't the only one who saw the charring around the wood. I'd guess his boat was set on fire or simply blown up. Neal's bragging about the fish he caught could have got him killed."
"Is that what it is all about?" Gamay said, her eyes flashing with anger. "Neal was killed over a fish?"
"Maybe." She shook her head "Poor guy. I can't help thinking that we're somehow responsible-"
"The only ones responsible are the guys who killed him."
"And I'm betting that Oceanus had a big hand in this." "If you're right, they may come after us next." "Then I'd suggest that we pack our gear and get out of town." Paul pulled the rental car in front of the guest house, and they went inside, paid their bill and grabbed their bags. The owners were obviously sorry to see them go, and followed them out to the car. As they chattered on about how it was a shame that they were leaving, Gamay tugged Paul's sleeve and steered him to the driver's side. She got in and waved farewell.
"Sorry to spoil our send-off party. While we were talking, I saw a black Tahoe pass by."
"Looks like the wolves are gathering," Paul said. He turned onto the road that would take them out of town and glanced in the mir- ror. "No one on our tail."
Except for a few vehicles, they saw little traffic, and once they had
gone beyond the town's outskirts, the road was empty. The two-lane road wound through thick pine woods, gradually ascending so they were driving high above the sea. On one side of the road was forest, and on the other a sheer drop-off for hundreds of feet.
They were about two miles from the village when Gamay turned to look at the road behind them and said, "Uh-oh."
Paul glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a black Tahoe bear- ing down on them. "They must have been waiting down a side road for us to pass."
Gamay tightened her seat belt. "Okay, then, show them what you can do."
Paul gave her an incredulous look. "You realize we are driving a six-cylinder family sedan that is probably half the size and weight of that black behemoth behind us."
"Damnit, Paul, don't be so analytical. You're a crazy Massachusetts driver. Just put the pedal to the metal."
Trout rolled his eyes. "Yes ma'am," he said.
He punched the gas pedal with his foot. The car accelerated to a respectable eighty miles per hour. Easily matching their speed, the Tahoe continued to gain. Paul managed to wring another ten miles per hour out of the engine, but the SUV moved closer.
The road began to go into a series of curves that matched the con- tour of the coastal hills. The rental vehicle was no sports car, but it held the road better on the turns than the big SUV, which leaned heavily as the curves became sharper. Trout had to hit the brakes to keep from going off the road, but the SUV was even less maneuver- able.
Slowed by the serpentine curves, the SUV lost ground. Trout curbed his elation. He kept his eyes glued to the road, hands firmly gripping the steering wheel, pushing his car to just under the speed at which it could go out of control and overshoot a curve. He knew that one lapse-a patch of sandy highway, an errant boulder or an error of judgment-could get them both killed in a fiery crash.
Gamay kept tabs on their pursuer and maintained a running com- mentary. The car's wheels squealed with each change in direction. Trout held it steady. He was running between sixty and seventy miles per hour, and was heading down a long, gradual slope in the road, when an unbelievable sight met his eyes.